i can thrill you more than any ghost would ever dare try
by Veterization
Summary: Peter/Stiles oneshot. PWP. It's Halloween night, and Peter thinks there are better things for Stiles to do than hand out candy.


_Disclaimer: _I do not own Teen Wolf.

_A/N:_ This is a shameless PWP. Song is from Michael Jackson's "Thriller." Honestly, I should get paid for the Reese's advertisement at this point. Everybody have a tremendous Halloween!

* * *

On any given night of the year, Beacon Hills is scary. On Halloween night, Beacon Hills is downright petrifying.

Stiles tells himself it isn't paranoia because it just isn't. It's one thing to be scared of Santa Claus leaving you coal when you've reached puberty, it's another to completely ignore the likelihood of allegedly mythical creatures coming to kill him on a night when it'd be perfectly incognito to do so when said mythical creatures have already proven their existence. On multiple occasions.

He likes Halloween fine. There's costumes, candy consumption without the guilt, and parties where he gets to watch Scott wet his entire torso by attempting to bob for apples. It's a good time, with the exception that Stiles has repeatedly thought that a night when dressing up as an ax-wielding murderer is fair play is the perfect time for the real ax-wielding murderers to do some damage. Razor-blade candy is just a drop in the bucket compared to potentially rabid and scheming creatures on the loose on a night when nobody blinks twice at the sound of a mortified shriek.

Which is why, Stiles thinks, it's perfectly acceptable for him to go inching down his hallway with his bat in hand—they all laugh, but it's fucking trustworthy—on his tiptoes awaiting the worst in his room if the ominous sounds are anything to make deductions off of.

It's not storming, which takes care of at least thirty clichés where he's brutally murdered in a flash of morbid lightning, but rather a pleasantly chilly October evening, perfect for kids dressed in inflatable pumpkin costumes to waddle down the streets screeching for sugar. Stiles would be doing the exact same thing if his father hadn't put him on candy dispenser duty. At least he's given up on the annual too-old-for-trick-or-treating argument that never works on Stiles anyway.

Instead, however, he's crawling upstairs after ignoring several creepy croaks of old floorboards, unnaturally loud wind whistling through the walls, and the distinct sound of a rustling body hiding away in the isolation of his bedroom. He's seen enough horror movies to know that it's always better to be the predator than the prey, and his fingers wrap firmly around his baseball bat in affirmation of this helpful fact as he presses his elbow against the door and jerks it open with one swift push.

He wields the bat and is about to let loose a war cry when he sees a silhouette on his bed, comfortable, hardly intending to move, and much too loose-limbed for a murderer. Stiles flicks on the light and groans.

"Peter, for god's sake."

The window's open, just enough for a body to roll through after shimmying up the drain pipe, and for something that would—unfortunately—be expected for Stiles is completely and utterly out of line on Halloween night. What's even more out of line, Stiles notices, is that Peter's in the middle of unwrapping the candy that Stiles had hidden under his bed after agreeing to hand out the rest to tiny youngsters who don't need the excess sugar anyway. He does. He's a growing boy who needs fuel.

"Took you a while to notice I'm up here," Peter says, sounding highly unimpressed. He's in the middle of unwrapping a Snickers while he talks, no shame whatsoever in his pilfering.

"And you had to eat my candy?"

Peter's unimpressed look deepens on his face, creasing into judgmental lines. He swallows half the candy bar. "You know you don't need it."

"And you do?" Stiles holds out his hand for the discreetly stashed bucket in Peter's hand. "Give it here."

Peter grins and completely ignores him, and with no intention of being obedient, slides to the edge of the bed and ropes Stiles in by his shirt to kiss him.

Stiles tries to resist, but there's a mouth on his, a mouth that knows what it's doing and tastes faintly of stolen chocolate, and he finds himself thoughtlessly succumbing and clambering into his lap, knees by his hips as he straddles him like the weak, weak boy he happens to be.

Peter murmurs approvingly on his mouth, quiet hums of pleased satisfaction, and their tongues are just starting to slide together and Peter's roaming hands are just starting to land somewhere interesting when the doorbell rings, a loud echo that wafts upstairs, and Stiles remembers his surroundings.

"Shit," Stiles mumbles, pulling away from him. Peter's grip tightens on Stiles' waist, like he has no intention of letting him go, and Stiles pushes at his shoulders. "There are kids."

"I'm not putting on a show for them," Peter drawls, highly uninterested, and attempts to distract Stiles by laving his tongue in convincing stripes up and down his neck. Foul play for sure.

"Asshole, they want candy. Which is what I'm distributing."

Peter sighs, giving up a little too soon for Stiles' liking considering the hands kneading his ass where starting to sway his plans, and lets Stiles get to his feet.

"Fine," he concedes, but not without a well-timed eye roll, and gets to his feet as well. "Let me do it."

"Oh hell no," Stiles yells, but there's already a delighted smirk on Peter's face as he slips off the bed and vanishes into the shadows of the hallway.

He follows him with long strides, because he's pretty sure that all of the lunatics let out on Halloween night mistakenly thought to be yet another idiot in a costume includes Peter, who looks harmless enough when he's not sporting a familiar shit-eating grin, but is actually overdue for a maiming that a small hapless child could easily fulfill.

Peter scoops the wicker bowl of candy off the table and makes his way over to the door, where the children have taken to abusing the doorbell button and repeatedly demanding attention until the entire house is ringing with their obnoxiousness. Stiles fumbles his way down the stairs just in time to watch Peter smoothly open the door and stare out over the collection of five children, all less than four feet tall, dressed in various crooked costumes and squarely awaiting their sugar rushes.

"Lovely," Peter says, just a little dryly, and promptly shuts the door the moment each of them has an extra Tootsie Roll deposited in their pillowcases. He flicks the lock closed while balancing the basket teeming over with candy calling Stiles' name in one hand.

"You locked the door," Stiles points out, eyes flicking to the bolt on the door securely closed.

"I did," Peter says, unwilling to remark further, and hooks a hand around Stiles' hip. Stiles looks down at the suggestive grip and snorts at the implications.

"You know I have to hand out candy the rest of the night, right?"

"What if," Peter murmurs, digging his hand into the candy bowl, "we find a better use for the candy?"

It's tempting, like everything Peter says in that low growl tends to be, and Stiles is about to uphold his own morality and promise to his father to dispense chocolate to the neighbor kids when the sound of rustling plastic catches his attention, and suddenly there's an unwrapped candy bar being waved around under his eyes.

"Oh," Stiles says. The curtains are open and he's not sure exactly how much of a good idea this is when there are innocent child eyes prancing through his garden in capes.

"Open up," Peter says, completely uncaring of robbing an elementary school kid of his innocence. There's the strong smell of peanut butter under his nose, luring Stiles to chow down without regret, so he parts his lip and lets Peter put a Reese's on his tongue.

It tastes delicious, even more so than usual because it's pilfered candy meant for young children. The guilt makes it taste better, and Stiles tries not to let the bliss that only chocolate can provide him show blaringly on his face. Peter smirks, like he knows anyway.

"What do you want me to say?" Stiles burbles around a mouthful of chocolate, very attractively. "That this stuff tastes better than five course meals because it's stolen goods? Because yeah, it is."

"It's good because it's the perfect combination of chocolate and peanut butter," Peter says smoothly, already grabbing another for himself. The pile is rapidly dwindling but Stiles can't bring himself to take the high road and insist this loot is for the shrieking children. "And your lack of self-control is astonishing."

Stiles resents that, but he's in the middle of swallowing a chunk of chocolate and is in no place to hurry through his snack just to deliver a well-timed retort. He settles for a piercing glare that has Peter chuckling.

"You want to be out there tonight, right?" Peter asks him. "I bet Lydia's throwing a party and you'd just love to watch her bend over a bucket and bob for apples."

"You have no understanding of the young mind," Stiles dismisses. It's true, in a way. He does spend the majority of his daily life fantasizing about sex positions, but lately none of them involve Lydia's creamy thighs and smooth chest, not that he's going to admit that to Peter. Naturally, Peter seems to x-ray through his thoughts without needing a single moment of guessing what lurks in the gears of his brain, and he grabs Stiles' chin in his forefinger and thumb.

"So you aren't thinking about sex right now?" Peter drawls, tongue darting out to catch the stray streak of chocolate on his lower lip. Stiles watched the movement meticulously if only to keep his eyes occupied. He resolutely pushes his hand away.

"You're the horniest old man I know," Stiles says, and pulls the most convincing face of pure revulsion he can muster up that Peter easily looks through. "If you really want to know, I'm glad I'm not out there. I just feel like Halloween is the perfect opportunity to slaughter someone and get away with it."

"Is that a suggestion?"

Stiles knits his eyebrows together, not amused. "You're also the creepiest old man I know."

Peter smirks like it's a well-deserved compliment and leans in to snake an arm around Stiles' waist, hitching up his t-shirt where his back curves. It's a clever t-shirt that spells out "this is my slutty Halloween costume" in spooky letters that he's pretty sure was in the woman's section. Good humor is hard to pass up.

"I can think of a great thing we could do," Peter murmurs, leaning in to ghost their lips together. Stiles inhales slowly and breathes in Peter's exhale, warm on his mouth and smelling faintly of gooey chocolate. This is the kind of suggestion he can get behind. "Better than begging strangers for candy or playing Scooby Doo gang with your friends at a party."

"Sounds like a pretty tall offer."

Stiles words it so it's a challenge, which riles Peter up like nothing else. If nothing else, he's very predictable, and Stiles can practically smell the predatory kiss before it smacks him in the face.

The entire kiss still tastes of chocolate—okay, maybe Peter's right, the peanut butter and chocolate are pretty great together when it's their tongues licking it off each other's lips—and it does absolutely nothing in convincing Stiles to hand out the rest of the pile to hungry children. He has no idea who came up with the rule that adults couldn't go trick-or-treating or wear inflatable costumes or binge on Twix all night long until the stomach agony becomes a very real nightmare, but at least adults get to stuff like necking in a hallway with practically no repercussions. Stiles weighs the odds, and he thinks the hand creeping up his shirt to roam over his chest is marginally better than a sack full of fun sized candy bars. Depends where the night is going.

"Huh," Stiles says when they pull apart, just a little breathless. "You'll have to try a little harder to convince me that I shouldn't ditch your ass right now to go mooch off my neighbors' candy supply."

Peter growls, riled up like a car that's been repeatedly revved on a scorching summer day, and he rids Stiles of his shirt in one smooth swoop that Stiles misses in one accidental blink. Then there are teeth dragging up his neck, and hands fondling his jeans, and hips grinding against his in slow, rhythmic ruts that have Stiles whining to keep up. He gets with the program and toes off his socks at light speed before tugging at Peter's shirt and tossing it over his head.

"How many goddamn v-necks do you own?" Stiles snorts, feeling the soft fabric of Peter's shirt in his hands before discarding it without another glance. As deep as it was, the v-neck still left quite a bit to the imagination that Stiles can now officially ogle and carve into his memory.

"When you look this good," Peter trails off, smirking as Stiles runs his hands down his chest. He doesn't remember ever fantasizing about chests lacking boobs before, not before the first time Peter pushed him onto his sheets and pulled off his shirt and Stiles was left staring at defined muscles that he had never stopped to appreciate before in his life. There's a certain amount of strength there, and hair, and masculinity, and the exact opposite of the soft chest of a woman that Stiles used to daydream about nesting in, but he's learned from experience that attempting to understand the urges of his own mind is too tall of an order.

Suddenly there's a hand pushing him to the floor and Stiles is suddenly straddled on the carpet with a heavy body on his waist pulling his jeans off his legs and palming his crotch. They've never actually done it on the floor before, usually sticking to couches and beds and walls and the occasional adventurous table, and Stiles is up for the new experience. He grabs Peter by the nape of his neck and tugs him down for a heated kiss.

So that's when the doorbell rings, a sound that pierces through their haze of intimacy, preceding a tiny muffled voice screaming "trick or treat!" through the door.

"Really?" Stiles groans, and feels a part of his dignity die a painful death at the idea of a seven-year-old sticking their face in the window and seeing his bare thighs wrapped around a grown man's waist. "You didn't turn the porch light off?"

"You talk too much," Peter is murmuring on his neck, trailing his tongue down his naked chest, and decides to distract Stiles from the tiny fists knocking on the door by grinding their hips together. Fuck Peter, and fuck the fact that he's successfully casting a haze of diverting pleasure over Stiles' eyes just by rocking his still-clothed cock on Stiles'. "Let them walk away."

"Don't you know the―ah, jesus christ," Stiles grips the carpet the moment a mouth fastens around his left nipple and teeth graze over it, wondering what his point was. It comes back slowly. "The saying is trick or treat."

"How cute, you're scared," Peter says on his chest, sounding genuinely amused, and pinches his other nipple. Stiles yelps and grabs him by the hair. "Shouldn't you be more scared that I'll leave before you come?"

"Yeah, right," Stiles rolls his eyes and arches up, pushing their mouths together. Their teeth shove together and their lips slide, but each time they do this it feels like years of deprivation have led to them rubbing against each other in a way that can only be described as animalistic. It's raw and primal, and Stiles is a little proud that such a part of him exists.

Stiles tugs on Peter's hair and Peter groans as their mouths angle together, sliding his tongue between Stiles' parted lips and swallowing whatever noises his throat would've felt appropriate to voice. It's a little embarrassing, the way Stiles responds to every touch with whimpers and moans and whines of need that seem to come from his very midsection where every urge settles and festers, but Peter seems addicted to the sounds and tries to worm them free every time. He pulls away just to reattach his lips over Stiles' pulse point, tongue suctioning on the steady beat of his overexcited pulse.

"C'mon," Stiles grumbles, ready to get this show on the road, ready for years, but Peter's pulling away and brushing a thumb over Stiles' slick lower lip. He glares, and Peter only pushes his finger into his mouth to slide over his tongue.

"Pretty," Peter is murmuring reverently, pulling his wet finger from Stiles' mouth to rub over his lips again, thoroughly bruised from Peter's kissing. Suddenly he's moving his hips away from Stiles', shifting his legs until he's reaching across the floor, and Stiles is close to grabbing his belt loops in his fist and making Peter beg to come right there when he returns, Reese's in hand.

"What are you doing," Stiles says carefully. This is no time to eat, he thinks, but Peter's focused no longer on Stiles' mouth or his hands, all his concentration focused on unwrapping his chocolate and snapping half of it into his mouth. Slowly, he rolls his hips into Stiles', catching him unaware, and pulls a few needy moans from his lips.

"Hmm," Peter murmurs around his mouthful of candy. "Why don't I share?"

He swoops down and fuses their mouths together, and suddenly there's melting chocolate being pushed into Stiles' mouth, and peanut butter, and oh yes, Peter's tongue pressing against his until even the roof of his mouth is coated in nutty, smooth chocolate. It's almost amazing that Stiles ever thought that trick-or-treating in the whistling wind in an impractically large costume would be a better Halloween than this here and now, with Peter's hand palming his crotch through his boxers and his lips tasting of rich milk chocolate that, if it were up to his father, he'd be handing out to unappreciative youngins. Not to mention that they would never ever truly understand all the potential that chocolate has without an experience like this.

"Delicious," Peter is saying between the last flicks of their tongues as the chocolate melts and leaves nothing but the sticky taste of peanut butter behind. "Better shared. Who would've thought."

"More," is all Stiles can think to ask for. He's hard enough to do some serious damage, all the blood vacating his head to pool in his midsection making him dizzy and light-headed, Peter's kisses hardly helping him reclaim his coherency. He licks his lips and tastes residues of chocolate.

Peter's response is a wicked smile, like the evening is still young, and he finally gets to work removing his pants while he unwraps more Reese's. Stiles hopes to god that that kid knocking on the door is long gone by now to harass his neighbors, not sticking around to peek through the window. Things are about to get R-rated in here, and Stiles doesn't want this evening to end with him explaining to his father in his boxers why the affronted parents of the traumatized child are going to need money for therapy bills because the Stilinski household can't close their curtains.

All thoughts of getting caught in promiscuous positions by his dad soar away a moment later when Peter drags a warm, round Reese's cup down his chest, leaving a brown trail of melting chocolate in its wake. Stiles' skin is warm and his chest is heaving, perfect conditions for chocolate to leave sticky stripes down his skin, and Peter sets to work licking him clean.

He keens, trying hard not to focus on how irreparably hard he is and instead concentrating on how heavenly it feels to have Peter's sinful mouth cleaning his chest slowly and thoroughly. He leaves no mark behind, teeth making an appearance to replace the chocolate streaks with deep purple marks courtesy of his teasing bites, and Stiles grabs onto his hair just so his hands find purchase on something solid to tug on.

It goes on for too long, Stiles thinks, long enough to leave him hard and shaking under Peter's fingernails digging into his chest. His tongue is fastidious, not leaving an inch of his skin neglected, and he's pretty sure that by the time morning comes, his chest will be mottled with the marks of what he'll try valiantly to pass off as a bug bite's feast in the locker room. Peter loves seeing him like this, when his body is on hypersensitive mode and begging to be touched, loves teasing him just to hear him whimper and arch into his warm mouth.

Peter slides his fingers, coated with melted chocolate, in Stiles' unsuspecting mouth, and Stiles takes it all in stride and wraps his tongue around the knuckles. If Peter wants to tease, he'll tease right back, and he keeps eye contact as he sucks all the sugary chocolate away until nothing but Peter's salty skin remains, and it seems to do the trick because Peter growls, yanks off his boxers, and takes Stiles' cock into his mouth without a moment's warning.

"Fuck!" Stiles groans, and Peter pinches his hip. Stiles' body stutters under his wet mouth sliding over the tip of his cock, especially when it pulls away a second later.

"Now, now," Peter drawls, sliding his hands over Stiles' hips to keep him at bay, "What would your father say if he heard language like that from your mouth?"

"I think he'd object more to the grown man kneeling between my naked legs," Stiles says without missing a beat, and Peter pinches his hip again. "Ow!"

"Hush," Peter says, Stiles' outcry of pain only worth a cursory roll of his eyes, right before he takes Stiles back into his mouth and makes him forget about pinching and pain all together.

The best part about Peter giving him blowjobs, Stiles thinks as he tangles his hands lazily into Peter's hair, is that it muddles the power balance that Peter is so sure is tipping in his favor. It's true that Stiles spent most of sophomore year sweating at the mere sight of red eyes out in the distance, but during times like this, when Peter has to cater to all of the pulls from Stiles' hands and Stiles' thrusts into the heat of his mouth, Stiles knows he's in charge.

Peter slides his hand around the base of his erection and squeezes, just enough to make Stiles arch off the floor. He's getting rug burn tomorrow on his back, he already knows it, but with a mouth taut around his dick, he's not exactly thinking of much else. Complaining can wait until after the feeling of hot warmth and a slick tongue sliding up his cock vanishes.

"God," Stiles says to the ceiling, rocking his hips. Peter hums around his cock, maybe as a warning, but Stiles doesn't heed it and ruts forward anyway.

Peter squeezes his hips and leaves crescent marks in the wake of his fingernails, but he lets him push in further into his mouth and nudge his throat, and Stiles keens and starts up a rhythm. It's warm and wet and everything that blowjobs were always promised to him years ago that they would be, and Peter happens to know what he's doing better than any bumbling high schooler could. Stiles feels his tongue drag up the underside of his cock, slow and teasing, and bucks his hips just in time to hit nothing but cool air.

Stiles opens his eyes and glares at Peter, still nestled in the V of his legs and looking supremely smug as he stops to eat another Reeses. Stiles doesn't know which he's more offended about, the fact that Peter is discriminating against all the other pieces of candy in the bowl or that he'd rather stop to have a chocolately snack than to have Stiles comes down his throat. Stiles props himself up on his elbow and yanks the uneaten half of the candy from Peter's hands to finish it off himself.

"You could get your own, you know," Peter says, licking chocolate away from his lower lip.

"Yeah, and you could have finished blowing me first too."

They kiss again, this time a little angrier, Peter stealing the chocolate from Stiles' mouth and Stiles valiantly chasing it. He doesn't remember the last time he was this hard and completely denied finishing, so he bites on Peter's lower lip and makes him growl and grip him by the backside, tugging him roughly closer and biting right back. It's not entirely fair, Stiles thinks, because he's going to bruise and swell, but Peter's going to return to the same well-composed, creamy-complexioned bastard he was when he arrived.

"Ugh," Stiles groans on his mouth, "stop trying to mark me, you freak."

Peter doesn't reply, only yanks off his own boxers and pushes Stiles onto the floor again. There it is again, the promise of rug burn, but this time it's overpowered by the presence of Peter's dick, just as hard as his own, rubbing against the crook of his thigh. Stiles arches up just as he presses down, and in a moment of well-timed pleasure, their erections slide together and the friction is enough to send Stiles reeling into a religious experience. He's about to slither a hand between their bodies to end it at all and fall asleep right here on this floor with kids banging on the door to wake him an hour later, when Peter grabs him by the wrist and nips his neck to keep him afloat.

"Not yet," Peter whispers right by his ear, taking the opportunity to press his tongue flat against the spot on his neck under his ear that he knows makes Stiles shudder. He does, as predicted, and grabs Peter's forearms. "Get some lube."

"You get some lube," Stiles hisses, in no mood to scramble up from the floor buck naked to rummage around under his bed. Peter bites him again, right at his hairline hard enough to almost break skin, and Stiles knees him in the balls hard enough to almost be ripped apart as punishment. Peter growls and picks himself up off the floor.

He's back in a flash, which is probably a testament to just how much time he's spent in Stiles' house and just how many times they've done this. It's a routine by now, and when Peter returns to the floor to blanket himself over Stiles' body and kiss him again, slower this time than before, it feels like lovers' habit and familiar touches over his body. He's heard time and time again that sex gets boring, that one needs variety and experimentation before settling into the rut that comes with one lover over and over and over, but Peter doesn't do boring. Boring isn't in his vocabulary. Each time they do this, it feels familiar and foreign all at once, and Peter keeps him on his toes just by licking chocolate off his face and turning an unnoticeable night into something unexpectedly exciting.

"Jesus Christ! You never can stop to warm it up, can you?" Stiles yelps, breaking their kiss when a dot of cold lube is rubbed into his entrance, hips jerking at the sensation. Peter doesn't give niceties like these second glances, silencing Stiles with another kiss as he slides his finger into Stiles and Stiles opens his hips to accommodate the bulk of man between them.

A tongue slides into his mouth just as Stiles wraps his legs around Peter's hips and relaxes against the intrusion of a second finger. For a ravenous, revenge-hungry sociopath, Peter can be gentle when he wants to be and when they're not in the throes of aggressive sex. Their mouths slot together while Peter scissors him open, and Stiles takes this opportunity to uncap the bottle of lube into his palm and slide his hand over Peter's length.

The reaction is well worth the discretion, as Peter's body convulses with the touch of Stiles' hand on his dick. He pulls back from their kiss to glare, and that's when Stiles remembers how cold the dollop in his hand was.

"Maybe that'll teach you something," Stiles smirks, stroking Peter's length. "You know, just to be more considerate about frigid things near valuable areas—"

Peter slips in a third finger, harder than before, and drives them all in to the knuckle until the words are stolen from Stiles' mouth and his sentence is abruptly cut to a stop. It's always like this, a petty competition that results in amazing mind-blowing sex, an innocent you can do better than that that escalates to one of them being fucked against a wall until the people next door are calling the cops to complain about the noise. He slides in his fingers again, this time angling for his prostate, and Stiles feels his back rut against the bristled carpet with every thrust of his fingers, every time he pulls out and pushes in. It's going to create one hell of a bruise on his backside, but it feels incredible and the pleasure is cancelling out the pain, each nudge to his prostate like a flash of all things heaven should be in front of his eyes. He swears he could pass out like this, with Peter relentlessly driving his fingers into him, but he doesn't want to, so he scrambles to squeeze Peter's shoulders and remind him to just get on with it already.

Peter gets the message, because a moment later he's pulling his fingers free and aligning his cock with his entrance. Stiles expects a slow, torturous push in, inch by inch because Peter loves teasing, but what he gets instead is Peter snapping his hips until he's entirely full, mouth falling open and what he's sure is a white light of ecstasy falling over his eyes.

"God," he groans, and squeezes Peter's shoulder harder. There's sweat accumulating there, a film of it that spans over his chest and his forehead, and he feels the breath Peter takes as his chest heaves under his grip. "You know I have to walk tomorrow, right? In front of people?"

"Would you rather have me slow down?" Peter asks, and his voice is dripping with condescension as he slides out and rams back in. He's such a smug bastard that Stiles fights down the urge to sucker punch him in the gut, mostly because he knows Stiles likes this and feeds off of his attempts to deny it. Stiles never would've gone for the rough and tumble method his first time, would've pushed and shouted at Peter to take it fucking easy on the precious goods, but he's long past the blushing virgin stage. Nobody else could ever do it like Peter does, without shame and without hesitation, and Stiles leans into every one of his merciless thrusts and bites down on his fist to not groan in satisfaction.

If the doorbell rings now, Stiles thinks, he's going to murder the hell out of whoever is daring to interrupt. All he can think about is how next year's Halloween is never going to compare, and he fists the carpet with his free hand to keep from clawing off Peter's skin as Peter reaches forward to pump Stiles' cock in tandem with his ongoing thrusts. Sometimes, when the sex gets raw and good like this, he feels bad for Scott, who he knows has never had sex to its full potential like this. It was probably soft and maybe even in the dark, just a few awkward slick fumbles in the shadows, and this, this animalistic, primordial type of sex is the only one that's really worth it.

Peter comes before Stiles does, his hips and handiwork slowing down as he finishes. Stiles finds himself shaking with the force of his hips even after they've stopped moving, and his cock is still hard and needy as Peter pulls out and reels him in for a kiss.

"Mind cleaning me up?" Stiles grumbles, lifting his ass and wiggling it for attention. Peter smirks and worms a hand down to squeeze his ass cheek as a promise to provide further attention.

"Turn over," he whispers.

Stiles does, even as his dick starts threatening to hold him hostage if he doesn't come soon, and that's when a wadded up t-shirt—his, of course—starts dabbing the come from his hole and cleaning up his thighs.

"Of course it was my shirt," Stiles groans. "What about yours?"

"Some of us have to look presentable," Peter says like it's obvious, but suddenly the cotton t-shirt is gone and is replaced by something much warmer, much wetter, much more like—

"That better?" Peter murmurs, right before pressing the flat of his tongue against Stiles' entrance. This is undoubtedly always the most intimate thing they do, and Stiles can never explain it. Maybe it's because it takes trust, or maybe it's because it's a part of himself that's raw and vulnerable out for display. Maybe it's because this is the one sexual exploit that when his father inevitably finds out about his son's relationship with a twice-his-age alleged coma patient, he definitely won't ever tell him happened. Ever.

Peter's mouth drags over his ass, his tongue sliding over his entrance and pausing to slide inside. He's still sensitive, still stretched open from Peter's cock, and Peter's tongue easily licks over his glistening hole before pulling out and laying flat over his puckered muscle. He licks all the way up until he's peppering kisses up his backside before sliding back down again, the barest hint of stubble and facial hair catching on the sensitive skin of Stile's backside. Stiles grabs the floor again and ruts his hips against the carpet for friction, everything settling in his cock as prickles of building passion that are starting to get uncomfortable.

Peter notices, though, and pulls at Stiles' hips until his ass is raised just enough for his cock to be free, and his hand takes the opportunity and strokes his erection from base to tip, slowly, in the same rhythm his tongue is lapping over his hole. God, Halloween is the fucking best.

He comes on the carpet a moment later, something he knows he'll regret when he'll have to scrub the stain away before his father starts staring at it with the same furrowed brows and creased forehead his face morphs into whenever he finds one of Stiles' come stains in his sheets or his jeans, but his body nearly sags with the relief of unwinding as he does. Peter's body presses into his from behind, a warm and sticky torso blanketed over his spine, and he'd be quite ready to close his eyes and nap here until he has to take his English test tomorrow. Of course, Peter isn't about to let him forget candy dispensing duty, and reminds him by nudging a newly unwrapped Reese's into his mouth.

"Oh shit," Stiles says after taking it from him and rolling onto his back, chewing off the edge while Peter unwraps his own. He's still completely naked and isn't the slightest bit insecure about it. Stiles stares at him sitting cross-legged eating chocolate on the carpet, not even a sock in sight, and snorts. "If I only ever get hard when I see Reese's from now on I'm sending the therapy bills of all those I scar with my public erections straight to you."

"Fine," Peter huffs, rolls his eyes again, and unwraps the next candy bar.

* * *

Stiles wakes up the next morning sore, grumpy, and dreadfully late to first period. This is the inevitable bad luck that proceeds a night of amazing sex if only to balance out the universe.

There's a November chill in the air that makes itself apparent the second Stiles gracefully falls from his bed with his sheets twisted around his ankles, and he spends twenty minutes trying to dig a sweatshirt out from underneath the pile of summer tees he's accumulated into a heap the last few months.

The second he leaves his house and locks the door, the retribution that comes with eating candy meant for kids half his age hits him squarely in the face when he takes in the ruin that is his front yard. He doesn't have time, though, to clean up the toilet paper from the trees or the egg yolk from the door—honestly, these kids could at least have been a bit original—so he settles for banging on the heating vents in his car to fruitlessly attempt getting them to work while staring down every house on his way out of the neighborhood to deduce which rug rat is responsible for the vandalism. Kids denied candy are fucking crazy, and apparently take the integrity of the phrase trick or treat very seriously.

The worst, however, doesn't come until he arrives at school and settles down for lunch and watches Scott pull a Reese's from his bag, promptly choking on his own slew of a school lunch. Scott waits until the oxygen returns to his airways before asking around a mouthful of chocolate, "What is it?"

Stiles smiles, ignores the rising heat in his cheeks and the even hotter one stirring in his pants, and very convincingly, says, "Nothing."


End file.
